When the Sun has Set
by Cherazor
Summary: Rose Tyler was more than just sketches in a journal – she was his wife.
Author's note: IT LIIIIIIIVES. Yeah, it's been years since I actually wrote something. But here I am with a new fanfic – it's actually an idea that has been rolling around in my head for ages, I just could never put it onto paper. And then the other day, I sat down in front of my laptop and the whole thing just tumbled out. It's been a very long time since that happened. XD

It also, by complete coincidence, works for this week's prompt from timepetalsprompt on tumblr: Back in Time.

A really big thanks to Moiranna for the quick beta work. You really are the best!

 _To Karolina for still being friends with me, in spite of all bad habits I keep giving her son. ^^;_

* * *

**When the Sun has Set**

"When the sun has set, no candle can replace it."  
―George R.R. Martin

* * *

"Oh, good morning, Mister Smith."

John started at the voice of the school matron and, for a short moment, he considered pretending that he hadn't heard her. She was a lovely woman, intelligent and kind, and yet…

It wasn't that he didn't like her, nor that he didn't enjoy her company – he did. It was more the fact that she appeared to enjoy _his_ a little bit more than was, perhaps, appropriate between two colleagues.

Mind made up, he made to walk in the other direction, only to have several of his books tumbling down from the precarious pile he'd been balancing in his arms. "There we go," he grumbled, staring at the books in betrayal.

"Let me help you."

"No, no, I've got it, no. Err, how best to retrieve?" he hesitated, attempting to put a little distance between them. "Tell you what. If you could take these—"

"Good." She smiled, accepting the books without question and John was pleased that his little book pile remained as a small barrier between them.

"No harm done." He offered her a tight smile as he fought to come up with something polite yet not too encouraging to say. "So, err, how was Jenkins?"

"Oh just a cold. Nothing serious. I think he's missing his mother more than anything."

"Oh, we can't have that." he said, wincing internally at the trite reply, yet at the same time, wondering how long he could keep her on the topic. It may be a boring subject, and one which he could offer little in terms of intelligent conversation, but it was a _safe_ topic, at least.

"He received a letter this morning, so he's a lot more chipper." Redfern paused, glancing at the books in her arms. "I appear to be holding your books."

"Yes, so you are. Sorry, sorry. Just let me…"

"No, why don't I take half?"

Were two tiny barriers better than one slightly larger? John was not too certain, but all the same, it seemed rude to decline the help she offered. "Ah, brilliant idea. Brilliant. Perfect. Division of labour."

"We make quite a team."

The topic had swung abruptly, he realized, getting closer to more uncomfortable areas, and he panicked, racking his brain for yet another polite reply to give. "Don't we just?"

Joan accepted his answer with another smile, and it dawned on him that his reply had, perhaps, been a little bit _more_ than just polite. "So, these books. Were they being taken in any particular direction?"

He exhaled in relief, thankful that she had not decided to pursue that conversation any further. "Yes, this way." He started towards the library, eager to keep her from continuing the previous topic. "I always say, Matron, give the boys a good head of steam, they'll soon wear themselves out."

"Truth be told, when it's just you and me, I'd much rather you call me 'Nurse Redfern'. 'Matron' sounds rather well, matronly."

"Ah." He swallowed, nervous about where the conversation was heading. "Nurse Redfern it is then."

"Though we've known each other all of two months, you could even say 'Joan'."

"Joan?" he croaked

"That's my name." A blush stained her cheeks as she gazed up at him and John _knew_.

It was exactly what he had feared. "Well, obviously," he managed. His tongue felt heavy and his heart was beating fast enough for two.

"And it's John, isn't it?"

He stared down at her and, blimey, how had she managed to get that close with two piles of books between them? "Nurse…Joan…" he stammered. "I—I don't—I'm not—"

She stared at him, and he floundered backwards, desperately trying to shape his thoughts into a coherent sentence.

"The stairs," she exclaimed.

"What about the stairs?"

"They're right behind you."

Moments later, he was lying sprawled painfully at the bottom of the staircase, gaze fuzzy and head throbbing. All the same, he couldn't help but think, congratulations were definitely in order – he had succeeded in escaping the conversation, at least.

His flash of pride didn't last long, however. As Redfern in the privacy of his room dug her fingers into his hair – admittedly to check for signs of a concussion, but _still_ – it very much felt as if he had somehow escaped out the pan and into the fire. Judging by her smile, she was enjoying the feel of his hair between her fingers far more than she ought. He was just about to voice his discomfort when his mind churned with uncertainty – perhaps she was simply being polite by smiling. Perhaps he was merely reading far too much into it. She was a nurse checking for injury, what is to say that she could not smile while doing so? Indeed, a calm smile would presumably keep the more anxious patients from becoming agitated further. Perhaps he was worrying about nothing.

A frustrated groan made its way through his throat.

"Stop it. I get boys causing less fuss than this."

"Because it hurts," he whined, hoping that his very real pain would cover the uneasiness he felt at her proximity.

It was at that moment Martha burst in through the door, and he almost sighed at the relief when Redfern took a step back in response.

"Is he all right?" Martha cried.

Redfern tutted. "Excuse me, Martha. It's hardly good form to enter a master's study without knocking."

"Sorry. Right. Yeah." Even from the corner of his eyes, he could see the exasperation on Martha's face as she rushed out, rapping out a quick knock before coming back inside. "But is he all right? They said you fell down the stairs, sir."

He could feel his face heat up. Had the whole school heard about his fall? What would the students think? "No," he replied quickly. "It was just a tumble, that's all."

Martha's dark eyes darted from his face to the Matron's. "Have you checked for concussion?"

He kept forgetting what an uncommonly intelligent maid Martha was. Had she not been constrained into the profession as she was, he could easily have imagined her as a nurse herself.

"I have," Redfern retorted, the scorn unhidden in her voice. "And I daresay I know a lot more about it than you."

John suppressed a wince.

"Sorry. I'll just tidy your things."

"Now, where were we, John?" Redfern turned her attention back to him, another pleasant smile gracing her lips. "the annual dance at the village hall tomorrow. It's nothing formal, but rather fun by all accounts. Do you think you'll go?"

He suppressed another wince. They were getting close to dangerous waters again. "I hadn't thought about it."

"It's been ages since I've been to a dance, only no one's asked me." Her face bore the same hopeful look as earlier, and it dawned on him that _this_ was the point she had been attempting reach earlier, before his timely tumble down the stairs.

"I—" He cleared his throat. "Matron—nurse Redfern, I—"

She bit her lip. "What is it?"

He sighed. "There's no easy way of going about this. I—I am very sorry, but I am simply not an available man."

She blanched, her mouth falling open. "Oh. Oh! I—I apologize. You did not wear a ring and I assumed—"

He let his eyes drop to his hands. "I am not married," he whispered. "That is to say, I am not married anymore. My wife— she—" He swallowed, desperately fighting the tears threatening to fall.

"Did she…" Redfern hesitated before continuing, "leave?"

He shook his head. "Dead. There was a battle. The Battle of Canary Wharf. We weren't even meant to be there, but she insisted on helping when she heard. It was—" A choked sob escaped his throat and it was in that moment that he realized that he was shaking. "I apologize—I apologize—"

"Oh, sir…" He heard Martha gasp from behind him.

"It's been a year. A _year_. Yet in my dreams I still hear her voice, see her face as she fell – the terror; the realization that she will die. I wish I could have held her…I wish—" He gasped for breath. "She was already gone when I reached her."

"John…" Redfern murmured, her voice filled with sympathy. "Do you have anything to remember her by? A portrait? Or a photograph, perhaps?"

He swallowed down another sob, fumbling after his handkerchief in a vain attempt to make himself presentable again. "I have a few sketches." He rose, pulling out his journal from behind his desk. "They don't do her justice."

Both Redfern and Martha huddled over the book, staring at his sketches intently.

"She was beautiful," Redfern said at last, a sad smile tilting her lips. "Oh, I apologize for how forward you must have thought me. I do wish we can continue to be friends."

"Of course, yes. I should be the one to apologize, matron."

"Nurse."

"Yes, _nurse_." He nodded, returning her smile weakly. "I should have been more open. But I—it _hurt_. So I chose to avoid the subject instead." He sighed.

She nodded as she made her way back towards the door, ushering Martha with her. "Come with me, Martha. I believe the both of us have far overstayed our welcome. Mr. Smith needs his rest. A full eight hours of sleep, I dare say, would do him some good." She paused, her face filled with understanding. "If you ever wish to speak about it—I lost my Oliver, my late husband… Grief and I are old friends, you might say."

"Thank you," he managed to croak before closing the door behind her. Finally allowing his weak legs to collapse beneath him, he crumpled to the floor, another set of sobs wrecking through his body. "Come back, Rose. _Please_. Just do this one thing. _Come back_." 

* * *

A peculiar mood seemed to have enveloped Farringham. Whispers echoed through the corridor and looks of incredulity seemed to be passing around.

John tried not to listen to gossip, nor engage himself in any kind of drama, yet…this seemed to him different than the normal gossiping that usually occurred between the staff. There was something odd in the air.

Had he been a sillier man, he would have said that it was as if the universe itself was waiting.

"John!"

He turned, staring at Redfern in surprise as she rushed towards him, her breath heavy.

"I've been searching for you all over school."

His surprise rose even further. "And you did not think to send the maids to search for me?"

She shook her head. "No, this is something of a private matter – I thought it best not. Particularly if I am wrong. You need to come with me to the infirmary."

"The infirmary?" he said, his voice filled with bewilderment.

"Yes," she replied as he fell into step just behind her. "There was… Mr. Cartwright was on his way towards town this morning when he found a woman by the side of the road, unconscious and not a thread on her body."

He frowned, scratching his left ear. "I say. But what—" He blanched. "You do not think I had anything to do with it!"

"Of course not, John." She stopped at the door leading in to the infirmary, and it was only then that he realized they had somehow walked through half the school without him noticing. "But they did suspect something of that nature had occurred. That is why Dr. Ellingham had me called for – they thought it best a nurse performed the examination in case she woke. A man might have furthered the trauma."

"But you do not think that she was…" he trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

"There was nothing on her body which would suggest anything of that kind, a fact I think she only has the Lord to thank for."

He nodded. "But I still do not understand why you wanted me."

"Oh, John," she started, and he balked at her tone – it was almost unnervingly soft, filled with an odd combination of hope, jealousy and longing. "It seems to me impossible, yet everything within me tells me that I cannot be mistaken. If I am right, then…what you have been given is a miracle." She unlocked the door, stepping aside to allow him entrance.

John strode inside, only to stop short.

His breath lodged itself in his throat, his heart beating faster than it had ever done before.

The form lying prone on the bed in front of him was one which he could never mistake – it was a shape he had spent nights lying beside, studying, memorizing; the tiny figure of a woman he had thought would forever be at his side.

Until she had been ripped away from him.

She was _gone_. He _knew_ she was.

He stepped closer, waiting for the mirage to disappear, for her shape to blend into an unfamiliar one. Yet the closer he came, the more familiar the shape grew to be. It was all there – the blonde hair fanned out over the pillow; the wide mouth set in a relaxed smile as she continued to sleep; dark lashes against porcelain skin.

A choked sob escaped his lips. " _Rose?_ "

* * *

Fin?

Author's note: Yes, I am on the fence on whether to leave this as a one-shot or not. We shall see if the plot bunny appears again...


End file.
